


Glitches in the System

by Rosawyn



Series: Fingerprints and Soul-scars [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awesome Peggy Carter, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, M/M, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Old Peggy Carter, Polyamory, Possessive Steve Rogers, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2032749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosawyn/pseuds/Rosawyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmate triads aren't <i>that</i> uncommon, but Steve and Bucky and Peggy are something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scars

**Author's Note:**

> You do not have to read "[Destiny Says So](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2028450)" first (or at all) as the stories are only very tangentially related (through Howard Stark).

“Steve,” Peggy says, brushing her fingers lightly against the back of his neck, not quite touching the marks there. Her touch is soothing. After he wasn't able to drown anything no matter how much alcohol he drank, and she talked all the sense he needed to hear but wasn't ready to believe, she followed him back to his room—maybe it was a mercy that she'd only ever had the one mark, just like Bucky, odd as that was, when Steve had both of theirs, because while she feels sorrow for Bucky's loss, it's second-hand. Must be easier. Has to be. “Bucky's mark...”

“It's scarred?” Steve's voice is rough. It almost hurts to speak.

“It's not.” Her voice is so soft he probably couldn't hear it were it not for Erskine's serum.

“What?” His head jerks around to look at her. He hasn't been able to bring himself to look at the mark, thinking it would hurt too much to see the inevitable lines of death and loss streaking through it—not that he's really had access to two mirrors, anyway. But this? This could only hurt worse.

“Sometimes they don't scar,” she says, looking at her lap. The words feel like a betrayal. That's unfair; she doesn't mean it that way.

Steve takes her hand. “I'm sorry,” he says, though she has no way of knowing what he felt, what he thought.

She's right, of course; it's rare enough to be considered _wrong_ , but sometimes the marks don't scar when the soulmate dies. The prevalent theory is that the surviving partner is incapable of letting go and somehow wills the mark to stay in defiance of a reality they're unwilling to face. There has never been enough research; soul-marks and soulmates are by their very names outside the realm of what science can know, so instead there are theories that cannot be proven, beliefs and superstitions and competing doctrines.

Howard, bless the man, was one of the few who just shrugged when he worked out that Steve had two marks when Bucky and Peggy each had only one; to him, it was never a sign that there was something wrong with Steve's soul—or Peggy's, or Bucky's. Triads are rare enough, but this was something else. Maybe it's easier for Howard to accept oddities, being one himself—an adult, yet his neck remains unmarked. Sometimes that happens. No one knows why.

But now...if Bucky's mark hasn't scarred, not after he fell, not when there is _no possible way_ he could have survived, maybe there _is_ something wrong with Steve's soul. Maybe there always was... The stubborn boy who always wanted to be more, to have more than he deserved. Who was viciously unwilling to let anything go, incapable of just walking away.

Peggy's head is on his shoulder and there are tears on Steve's face. He brushes them away, sniffing. “I'm sorry,” he says again.

“I wish...I just wish there was something I could do,” she says, and he hears, 'I wish I was enough.'

So he kisses her fiercely, because she _is_. She absolutely _is_. She is wonderful and flawless and brilliant and powerful and amazing—and a little terrifying, but in the best way possible. She is far more than a stupid kid like him could have ever dreamed for himself, and he doesn't understand how God saw fit to mark them for each other, because it's clearly unfair, clearly unbalanced. “I love you,” he says, because it's true, and he can't think of anything else to say.

o0o

“Stevie, your mark,” Bucky says, surprise and confusion in his voice as his hands drop away. He's been cleaning the blood out of Steve's hair after a fight—one he's pulled Steve out of, because that's what they do: Steve gets into fights he can't win, and Bucky pulls him out and fixes him up and tells him how stupid he is. Someone has to; it's not like Steve ever learns.

Steve, in his hit-on-the-head confusion, almost asks, 'Which one?' but of course it doesn't matter which one. “What's wrong?” Steve asks instead, sudden dread cold in his stomach—it could be scarred; he could have lost a soulmate before even meeting them. It happens. Far too often, far more often than most people want to admit.

But Steve has two, more than most, and that in and of itself means his soul is greedy. Or so they say. Others say he's got more love, a bigger heart. Maybe it means both. Maybe it means something else entirely.

And if one were to scar, most would assume the other was a secondary mark, appearing after the loss of his first soulmate. It would make him less of an oddity. Most would just assume he was normal, were they to see that on his neck. He's a little young still for a secondary mark, but it happens.

“It, uh.” Bucky looks away, dropping the bloody cloth back into the basin of water. “It looked like it turned blue. When I—when I touched it.”

“I didn't feel anything,” Steve says dully, frowning, but he wouldn't feel much, would he? Not with a head injury; his whole damn head is pounding—how could he feel much else? And of course, not all marks feel like anything. Not all marks react at all. Steve cocks his head, trying to focus on Bucky through the pain and confusion and the quiet threat of an asthma attack he's been ignoring because sometimes that really does make them go away. “Try it again?”

Scraping his teeth over his bottom lip, Bucky nods and moves closer, carefully brushing his fingers against the back of Steve's neck.

It kind of feels nice, actually, though maybe no different than Bucky touching him anywhere on his neck would right now.

“Oh my God,” Bucky breathes. “It's definitely turning blue. It's—wow. That's amazing, Stevie.” He grins, keeping his hand on over the mark as he moves so he can see Steve's face. He is excited, nervous, joyful. “How's it feel?”

“Feels nice.” Steve smiles dopily at him. “Head doesn't hurt so much.”

“Okay, that's good.” Bucky grins, then frowns, confused. “But, how can I be yours, Steve? I've—you're part of a triad, but I'm...” Right. Bucky's like most people; he only has the one. There's fear in Bucky's eyes—maybe he's wrong, maybe his eyes are playing tricks.

“Let me try yours, Buck.” Not all marks react; maybe they'd need an expert to analyze them. But experts don't tend to do that for free. They could stick their fingers in some ink and do the comparison themselves—use two mirrors, get a good look. There are ways to be pretty sure, and normally one mark reacting is enough. But this—this confused mess on the back of his own neck that apparently isn't a triad after all—isn't anything Steve's heard of before.

“Yeah, of course.” Bucky turns around, kneels in front of the chair on the floor between Steve's feet. The mark does look about the right size. It's warm honey on Bucky's skin, just like it's always been.

Steve reaches out one slightly shaky hand—bruised knuckles and all, because they're both like that, and they're the only hands he's got—and touches. It's beautiful: red blooms at his touch like paint on a canvas, fading in his wake as he moves.

Bucky squirms a little. “Is it changing? It must be; you're taking long enough to look!”

“Yeah.” Steve lets his hand drop away, watching the mark—his mark—fade back to its familiar colour. “It goes red.”

Bucky twists around to grin, broad and bright, with a flash of relief in his eyes. “So we do match.”

Steve grins back. He wants to nod, but moving his head right now is probably not a good idea. “We do.”

But it's not a 'match', not really. A match means a pair, fair and balanced. Bucky's found his soulmate, but there's still someone else out there for Steve. As if Steve somehow deserves a second. As if Bucky—gorgeous, athletic, smart-mouthed Bucky—isn't enough.

Steve wonders if it will be someone small and sickly like him. He's not sure if that would make it better or worse.

o0o

Peggy's touch on her own mark on Steve's neck feels the way mint tea tastes: cool and soothing and delicious. She laughs when he tells her, saying she might prefer Lady Grey herself.

The brown mark on her own neck goes red at his touch, darker and richer than the red of Bucky's. He's secretly glad they both do the colour thing, selfish of the colours he can create with his touch, as though his soulmates are his canvas.

Bucky's smirk says maybe he knows Steve too well.

Steve rolls his eyes, trying not to blush. “You can tell her, you know.”

“It makes him feel like an artist.” Bucky sniggers, glancing playfully at Steve out of the corner of his eye. Steve suspects he likes painting his own colour across Steve's cheeks.

“He is an artist.” Peggy swats Bucky's knee.

Bucky nods. “He's always been one of my favorites—quite the talented chap.” He raises an eyebrow. “I hear he dances too, but I never got to see the show.”

This time, Steve swats him, trying to glare while laughing and blushing and trying to hide his face.

Bucky tackles him, kissing him messily then suddenly rolls off, shoving one hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he says to Peggy. “I'm just so used to...” He's used to it being just him and Steve; it's been just him and Steve for years. He bites his lip. “I'm not exactly sure how this works—”

The corner of Peggy's perfectly painted lips curves up. She's sitting primly on the edge of a wooden chair. She shrugs one shoulder. It's not like there are books on how triads do things. It's not like they're actually a triad. “I suppose we're meant to take turns, Sergeant.” Her eyes sparkle. “Though I can't say I wasn't enjoying the show.”

Steve is blushing so hard he's sure they could fry bacon on his forehead—and Bucky might even try—but he loves them both so much and he's never been happier in his life. He wants more of this: Peggy and Bucky smiling, laughing, relaxed and at ease. He wants to kiss them both, to hold them both. He reaches for Peggy because he needs to touch her, and she takes his hand—he leans his head on Bucky's familiar shoulder, comforting and warm. They're in the middle of a war, but in that moment he feels safe. He wants this forever.

o0o

Peggy and Bucky try touching each other's necks, searching for invisible marks that never appear.

The public is allowed to believe that they're a triad. 'Joining the army, Captain America followed in the footsteps of his childhood friend and soulmate and, as fate would have it, there met his _other_ soulmate! We've never been safer than with these three working as a team to protect our freedom!' It's something they understand, or at the very least it's something they've heard of.

(When Steve wakes up in the future, he learns that he was instrumental in the spread of triad awareness and acceptance. He's not sure what to think about that, but he supposes it's a good thing, because no one should be made to feel ashamed of who they love.)

(There are even books about triads now—explaining how different groups have made things work—but Steve has no reason to read them.)

o0o

When Steve goes down in the plane, the mark on Peggy's neck scars: a single pale, nearly-white line, slightly curved. Like a pen scratching out an error.

Howard sees it. He keeps searching the water. He doesn't have to say that the marks are not infallible. He doesn't have to say he's looking for a body.

His own neck remains unmarked.

Peggy didn't expect him to put faith in a mark she can hardly believe herself. But he deserves whatever information they might have, and this was hers.

o0o

A year and ten months after Steve's plane goes down, a new mark appears on Peggy's neck. At least, that's when she first becomes aware of it, since she doesn't often _look_. Howard had asked to see her mark again. It isn't his specialty, it isn't even science, but he was curious. “Did you know you have a new one?” he asks. He shows her in the mirrors, because she didn't.

It's too big to be Howard's—not that it was likely to belong to someone who was himself unmarked, but considering her first soulmate, Peggy wouldn't have ruled out stranger things. “Can you analyze it?” she asks, wanting to know who's laid claim to her. That isn't fair; that's not how this works. She's still angry.

It turns out he knows how. She isn't exactly surprised.

He checks it against the prints they have on file—not expecting a match, but might as well. It turns up Gabe Jones. “Apparently,” Howard says, “he's had a scarred mark since his teens, but no secondary mark on file. I assume it's about as new as yours.” That is usually how secondary marks work.

She's often wondered if she was supposed to be Steve's secondary mark but had showed up early. 'There are glitches in the system,' Howard often says. 'And I'm one of them.' It's a joke, but the smile never quite reaches his eyes.

o0o

“I suppose there isn't a way to say this that wouldn't be awkward.” She shows Gabe the results of her secondary soul-mark analysis, shows him how he's the match. She turns around and lifts her hair off her neck so he can see his new mark next to Steve's old one—the scar running through Steve's like a polite correction.

“Did you want me to touch it?” he asks, as though the analysis isn't proof enough.

“You might as well.” She sucks in a sharp breath, ashamed. She hadn't meant to snap. None of this is his fault.

“Hey.” He moves around her, kneels on the floor, looks up. “We don't have to rush anything.” His voice is kind. His face is kind. “I never met my first soulmate, so I guess this is easier for me.” He shrugs.

But it can't be, not really. Realizing his soulmate died before he ever met them and knowing that he probably wouldn't get a second, because secondary marks appear less often? No, that couldn't be easy. Couldn't be better. Couldn't be preferable.

She laughs a little to avoid crying. It doesn't really work. “When your new mark appeared, were you excited?”

He shrugs. “I suppose I was, a bit.”

“Oh, can I see it?” she remembers to ask.

He turns around and there it is, pale pink on his dark brown skin, next to his old, scarred one—the scar is a messy squiggle, like someone was angry. “I'm sorry,” she says softly. It feels like something she has to say.

He shakes his head. “You don't have to apologize, Miss Carter.”

But she's still angry, despite everything—despite him being kind and patient—so maybe she does.

o0o

Peggy is old. She is old and sick, and she can't even walk on her own, and sometimes she can't remember what day it is. Or even what year. She has two scarred marks on the back of her neck, and children and grandchildren and nieces and nephews to fill her life with love. The world says she lost three soulmates, but she only ever had the two, not that it was any of _their_ business. It never was. And she's not about to show them her neck.

And she loved Bucky too, in a way. It was such a short time, even shorter than her brief time with Steve. Not like the decades she had with Gabe. Maybe in another, kinder world, one where no one fell from trains or crashed airplanes, she would have had a very different life. Maybe she and Steve and Bucky could have been the triad everyone thinks they were, and maybe it wouldn't have mattered if they weren't. They could have worked it out.

And maybe Gabe would have had someone else's fingerprint appear on his neck, and maybe he could have been happy too. Or maybe he could have even without the mark, like Howard in the too few years he had with his Maria. But maybe Maria would have been Gabe's secondary soulmate, and then there'd be no Tony. And of course she couldn't wish away any of her own children or grandchildren.

Maybe there is no such thing as a 'kinder' world, because no world is ever kind. Or maybe they all are. Maybe it's up to the people to be kind regardless, to accept themselves and each other even when there's something unexpected in the system, something Howard called a 'glitch' even though it was about souls and not machines.

o0o

Sharon is an adult before her mark appears: sudden, dark, and bold against her skin. They'd thought she might be like Howard, but no. There's someone out there for her, somewhere.

“I'm not sure I want to meet him, Aunt Peggy,” Sharon says. She assumes it's a man; the finger seems too large to be a woman's. She hasn't gotten it analyzed—has been too busy, and doesn't really want to know. “I just thought...maybe it was just me. I was okay with that. But now there's someone else, someone 'destiny' or 'God' or whatever says is supposed to be mine, and we're just magically supposed to make each other happy. I don't know if I can believe that.”

Peggy shakes her head where it lies against the pillow, squeezing Sharon's young, strong hand. “It doesn't mean you'll be happy; it doesn't.” She swallows, frowns. Her voice is so tired now. “It can be confusing, and it can hurt, and the marks don't make it easy. They don't.” Her eyes unfocus, remembering. “I was so _angry_ when your uncle Gabe's mark first appeared on my neck.” She laughs softly. “I had already met and lost my soulmate, and I had decided I didn't need anyone else. And I was right, you know? I _didn't_ need another soulmate. I was fine on my own, just like you are. But I'm still glad of him; we found some happiness together, built a life.” She smiles. “It was worth it.” She pauses and her voice softens. “The first one was worth it too. It hurt more, that one, but I would never wish him away.” She swallows again, focusing on Sharon's face. “But I hope you _are_ happy, no matter who you might meet, no matter what happens. I would wish that for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this fic, pre-serum Steve is capable of recognizing the colour red (this is actually not too difficult for many colourblind people; I had a teacher in highschool who was red-green colourblind, and he could nearly always correctly identify red.)
> 
> There will be at least one “extra” scene for this which will be posted as a second chapter. I might also write separate oneshots about what happens after this (in addition to the other less related fics taking place in this same continuity) if people are curious about what happens to these characters (and if I get ideas/inspiration, because my muse is fickle as hell).
> 
> Just for the record, Sharon's soulmate isn't Steve. Logically, he couldn't really have another soulmate when he's already got two (and neither of them is dead).


	2. Do I Have to Do It For You?

“So, is she the one?” Bucky asks. They're lying together on Steve's cot; it's not strictly big enough for two people—perhaps not strictly big enough for Steve alone now that Steve's gone and gotten himself all huge—but Bucky's mostly on top of Steve, so it doesn't really matter. “And when are you going to properly introduce me?”

“What?” Steve says, and it's possible he's being honest: it's possible he has no idea what Bucky's talking about. He probably is being honest, actually; he never was any good at lying.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Agent Carter, Peggy, the gorgeous dame you were making eyes at and who was making eyes back just as hard if not harder.” Steve's a lucky bastard. A lucky, totally deserving bastard.

Steve blushes, looks _guilty_. His arms tighten about Bucky's shoulders as if he needs to keep Bucky there. As if Bucky would ever leave. “I didn't—you don't have any reason to be jealous, Buck.”

“Jealous?” Bucky lets out a disbelieving huff as he pushes himself up—Steve lets him, but his hands remain on Bucky's biceps—to get a better look at Steve's face. He shakes his head, scraping his teeth over his lower lip. “No, I don't suppose I have any reason to be _jealous_ , Stevie, since that stuff they pumped into you didn't bother to fix your _brain_ when it fixed the rest of you.” He shifts up a bit farther so he's looking Steve directly in the eye. “You haven't even talked to her.”

“We've...talked,” Steve counters, and Bucky remembers once more why he loves this stupid punk. Well, one of the reasons: he's just so gloriously inarticulate when he's flustered.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You obviously haven't talked about anything good.” He slides his tongue out between his lips to moisten them. Also because he loves the look in Steve's eyes as they catch the motion. “Like the fact that you're still looking for your second soulmate—the one who's probably very female based on the size of her fingerprint—and, 'Oh, Agent Carter, have you happened to meet your soulmate yet? Because it could be me, so why not let's try touching each other's marks and find out?'”

Steve gives him a longsuffering look with at least a bit of a smile mixed in. His hands tighten a bit on Bucky's biceps. “That the sort of line you'd use, Buck?”

Bucky smiles lazily. “Probably.”

Steve huffs. “Well it's a good thing you've already _found_ your soulmate then.”

Bucky leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Steve's overly-muscled neck, humming and running his tongue over Steve's slightly salty skin just to hear that sharp little intake of breath—Steve always seems so surprised, even after all this time. Steve smells different now, still like _Steve_ , but warmer, stronger, more vibrant. Bucky pulls back just enough to murmur against Steve's skin. “I certainly think it's a good thing.”

Steve's laugh is a little breathless but in the _healthiest_ way—thank heavens for mad scientists and their highly experimental miracle drugs. But there is a frown in Steve's voice when he speaks again: “What did you mean when you said they 'fixed' me? You think I was...broken?”

Rolling off of Steve, Bucky sits up—perches on the very edge of the narrow cot—shoving a hand through his hair, sighing. “You had nearly every chronic condition known to man, so _yes_.” He turns his head to look down at Steve, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. “But you were a stubborn, stupid little punk, and you still _are_.” He runs one hand over Steve's impossible abs. “Just not so much with the 'little' anymore.”

Pushing Bucky's hand away, Steve sits up as well, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot and hunching over with his forearms resting on his thighs. He glances sideways at Bucky, eyes guarded. “You like me better this way.”

And it's the stupidest thing, because Bucky has _liked_ Steve, Bucky has _loved_ Steve since they were freaking _kids_. He rolls his eyes, hunches his own shoulders. “You know me: totally shallow.”

Steve shoots him a frown that says he doesn't quite follow. But then, Bucky's always been the one to follow.

Clenching his jaw, Bucky takes a few breaths through his nose then fixes Steve with a harsh glare. “I'd never want to kiss anyone who wasn't gorgeous as hell, Steve, so I've always been real thankful that my soulmate happened to be the most devastatingly attractive guy on the whole damn planet.” He looks away, mutters under his breath, “You didn't have to be _big_ , but of _course_ I'm glad you're healthy.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, hurt and guilt leaking into his voice. “I—I didn't mean—” He reaches for Bucky, so Bucky takes his hand, giving it a rough squeeze and holding on.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You don't have to apologize for being a stupid punk, or you'd be apologizing all damn day and it would get boring pretty fast.” He smiles, lopsided, nudges his shoulder against Steve's. “So are you gonna talk to your girl, or do I have to do it for you?”

“She's not my girl.” The mumbled words are somehow defiant. Steve really has a lot of fascinating talents like that one right there.

“I will bet you _money_ that she is,” Bucky counters, laughing. “The whole of my next paycheck: yours, if she isn't.”

“Okay _fine_.” It's not the bet, of course, but maybe it's a convenient excuse. “But I want you to be there when I talk to her.” Steve's grip on Bucky's hand is warm, his eyes earnest as they meet Bucky's. “You're a part of this.”

So Bucky nods, because of course he's a part of 'this'—he's a part of _Steve_ , swallowed up long before Steve got all big on the outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To read the sequel to this fic, just click to the next fic in the series.


End file.
